


When

by farevenasdecidedtouse



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/pseuds/farevenasdecidedtouse
Summary: One evening out of many in Amalo.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Island_of_Reil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/gifts).



Tiny stoneware cups topograph the table, the lamps flicker in their sconces, and Thara is unsure where he lost the thread of his argument. His rhetoric was by no means burned with his mask and his queue, but in the absence of license to argue his true beliefs his contentions are confused, lacking concrete citations and the strength of his own convictions He does not think Aina suspects—years with his intentions as masked as his face have left him with a capacity to deceive as great as any actor’s. He questions coincidence disguised as the natural order, wonders aloud exactly how much black powder it would take to bring down an airship and his tone remains neutral, those assembled writing off the new  _zhornu's_ skepticism as simple ignorance. And yet, so blind to everything but his own cause, Aina is still drawn to him as surely as he to Aina. Drawn like moth to flame, like those below who search Ulis’s inscrutable face for answers long in coming.

The cocksure lift of his chin, the calm to his words that provides the merest veil over his endless reserves of passion and drive, Thara was lost to Aina Shulivar's faulty and presumptuous rhetoric from the moment their gazes met through the smoky air of the Stone Tree. What has he been saying? He mutters something about personal responsibility, provoking a smile as genuine as it is painful. _Why reason,_ the curve of those cloud-hued lips seems to ask, _why even try?_ The arguments of a prelate, based in logic and fact and the agreed-upon working of the world, is nothing to one who values nothing save that which he imagines to be his for the taking.

Even before the lamps expire and their _zhornei_ have vacated the usual room Thara finds himself pinning Aina against the outside wall near the rain barrel, breath too short to cry out against Aina’s mouth as teeth graze his lower lip hard enough for him to taste blood. His hands anchor in short-cropped black curls, provoking a hiss that sends an ache of longing through his already rigid cock and makes Aina buck against him. Soon the cold that mists their breath and makes Thara shiver for cold as well as ardor becomes too much, moves their writhing to use-soft sheets in a room only slightly warmer than the streets of Amalo.

Once settled on the bed, Aina mounts him with little further preamble. He rarely speaks in the act of love, only directing Thara as one born to the power he believes to be his in potentia. _Harder. More oil. Tell me if thou wouldst have me stop._ Thara can only acquiesce, fucking into him like a starving man at a feast as Aina's fingers tangle in his hair and tease his nipples into stiff peaks. His touch is like intoxication, his summer-sky eyes meeting Thara’s shamelessly until Thara hates him and desires him and longs to tell the Emperor _you see, despite all he has succeeded by placing you in power, spare him if only for our sake._ The thought becomes horrifyingly muddled, blue eyes shading soft grey, arrogant, infuriating, beautiful set of jaw and ears softening to breathless hesitance. Thara sits up abruptly, pulling Aina into a seated position in his lap and burying his face in a dusky curve of shoulder to mask the rush of shame.

After, when Thara has cried out wordlessly with the merciful forgetfulness of climax and Aina has cleaned his own seed from Thara’s chest with his tongue (eyes still never leaving Thara’s for a moment) they lie entangled, their usual debate silenced by fatigue and, for the moment, peace.

Something must give. The only question, Thara reflects through his haze of satiation and guilt, is when.


End file.
